


The Pearl Fishers

by thesentimentalist



Series: Good Omens Works [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), First Time, Fluff, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Other, Pillow Principality, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 14:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19947850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesentimentalist/pseuds/thesentimentalist
Summary: “What’s this screen?” asked Aziraphale, pointing to a bar running in front of the seat.“Oh, it has subtitles,” said Crowley, “they can be pretty distracting though. Don’t worry, I’ll translate for you.”If Aziraphale suspected that this was a pretense for Crowley to spend the evening pressed against his side, whispering into his ear, he said nothing.





	The Pearl Fishers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Chacun à son goût](https://archiveofourown.org/works/46250) by [thehoyden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehoyden/pseuds/thehoyden). 



> This story was inspired by thehoyden's [Chacun à son goût](https://archiveofourown.org/works/46250). The difference being that her fic is vastly superior and that mine doesn't have a plot or what the courts call "redeeming social value."  
> It was also inspired by The Pearl Fishers, especially[Je crois entendre encore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5MjnIcxCz8c)

Aziraphale had kissed Crowley outside of his bookshop after The Ritz that night. Crowley had turned red, and spluttered, and asked Aziraphale what he was doing. Aziraphale had told him, and now they were, well . . .  
It was more or less what they had been doing before, but Aziraphale could hold Crowley’s hand under the table when they got crepes at the little cafe near St. James Park, and Crowley could lean over and kiss Aziraphale whenever the urge struck him.  
Aziraphale thought this was a significant improvement.  
That was how they ended up seeing Les pêcheurs de perles at the English National Opera. Crowley managed to get a private balcony, of course.  
“It’s a date, angel.” he said, and Aziraphale didn’t argue.  
“I didn’t know you liked Bizet,” Aziraphale said, “I think you slept right through him.”  
“I did,” said Crolwey, “but it’s pretty difficult to get through life without hearing something from Carmen. I thought it would be interesting to see some of his earlier work.”  
“It should be, I can say I’ve seen . . . ah . . . how do you pronounce . . . ?” said Aziraphale.  
“Les Pêcheurs de Perles,” said Crowley, in perfectly accented French.  
The box was lavish, providing an excellent view of the stage. Crowley miracled the seats into a fainting couch, and they sat down.  
“What’s this screen?” asked Aziraphale, pointing to a narrow screen in front of them.  
“Oh, it has subtitles,” said Crowley, “they can be pretty distracting though. Don’t worry, I’ll translate for you.”  
If Aziraphale suspected that this was a pretense for Crowley to spend the evening pressed against his side, whispering into his ear, he said nothing. They settled into their seats, and as the curtain came up as the prelude floated to their ears. Crowley draped himself over the back of the chair, wrapping one arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale settled his head comfortably against Crowley’s shoulder.  
As the chorus began to sing, Crowley turned toward Aziraphale and began to whisper in his ear:  
“On the burning sand where the blue sea sleeps . . .”  
His lips brushed against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, and he could not repress the shudder that went through him as he tilted his head up towards Crowley’s face. He felt Crowley grin, and put a hand on his knee.  
Crowley turned to look at him and grinned.  
“Alright angel?”  
“Yes.” Aziraphale squeaked, and meant it.  
The opera went on, and Crowley’s thumb rubbed little circles on Aziraphale’s kneecap. Aziraphale thought there might have been something about a temple and forbidden romance, but he was rather distracted. He could feel the warmth of Crowley’s skin seeping through the fabric and soaking into him, and it was . . . good. He felt like a glass of champagne, and once again, all those metaphors about butterflies in your stomach made sense. Then Crowley inched his hand up, and gently squeezed his thigh. And suddenly, it was different. Each touch of Crowley’s lips against his face sent sparks up and down his spine. And the more it happened, the more Aziraphale wanted.  
The friction was good, each touch winding him higher and higher, until he couldn’t think of anything except how badly he wanted Crowley to slide his hand between his legs. It was maddening, it was overwhelming, and he never wanted Crowley to stop. Crowley’s teeth grazed his ear. He felt a sharp stab of pleasure and then he could actually feel himself opening up between the legs, getting wet so Crowley could–  
He bit back a moan as the tenor sang about broken promises, and the music fell into something slow and sensual.  
I think I still hear  
Hidden beneath the palms  
Her voice, tender and deep  
Like the song of a dove  
Crowley whispered, rubbing circles on the crease of Aziraphale’s thigh with his thumb.  
Oh enchanting night,  
Divine rapture,  
Oh delightful memory,  
Mad euphoria, sweet dream.  
It was divine, it was shocking, it was too much, and Aziraphale shuddered, burying his face in Crowley’s shoulder, so good it almost hurt.  
Crowley’s arms clenched around him. When Aziraphale finally stopped shaking and looked up at him, his face was awash with red.  
“Did you just . . . ?” he whispered.  
Aziraphale turned his face back into Crowley’s shoulder and nodded.  
“I’m sorry angel, I didn’t think you could–”  
Aziraphale kissed his neck, “That was lovely.”  
“Oh?”  
“I don’t suppose you’d want to do some more?”  
Crowley stared down adoringly for a moment. Gently, Crowley pushed him to lie down on the couch and kneeled at his feet as he began undoing the buttons on his trousers, pulling them down around Aziraphale’s ankles. He stared, then swallowed, reaching to touch him reverently with his thumb. Aziraphale sighed and squirmed as Crowley hauled one of Aziraphale’s legs over his shoulder.  
Crowley kissed his knee; his inner thigh; sliding a finger into him as he explored the warm, pink, folds of his body with his mouth.  
It didn’t take much to have Aziraphale biting his fist and squeezing Crowley’s ears with his thighs. He grabbed Crowley’s shoulders and hauled him up onto the couch to kiss him, hands drifting down to the zipper on Crowley’s pants.  
Crowley groaned and leaned into his hand.  
“Angel, I want to have you, can–?”  
Aziraphale nodded and wrapped his legs around Crowley’s hips. Crowley gasped softly and wiggled halfway out of his trousers. For a moment he sat back, petting the sticky sweet warmth of him, spreading him open on his fingers and rubbing his clit with his thumb. Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hips and sunk into him sweet and easy. Aziraphale’s mouth opened in a silent cry as Crowley rocked into him, rubbing his clit with the heel of his hand.  
Intermission began, conversation bubbling up from the floor below, but pressed close as they were, Crowley could still hear Aziraphale muffled groans and breathless sighs.  
“S’good?” moaned Crowley.  
“Mm-hm.” Aziraphale gasped, eyes squeezed shut against each battering wave of pleasure, breath coming in choked off little moans.  
Crowley felt an unbearable heat pooling in his cheeks and chest, overcome with finally, finally, being inside his sweet angel’s body.  
Aziraphale opened his eyes, gazing up at Crowley from under his fluttering eyelashes, and squeezed. Crowley came, blinded by pleasure.  
He washed up gasping for air, his forehead resting on Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphael was running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, smiling indulgently.  
“You weren’t kidding about earthly delights my dear.” he said.  
Crowley groaned and nuzzled Aziraphale’s chest. For a moment they lay there, basking in the afterglow.  
“I’m afraid I’ve completely lost the plot of the opera.” Aziraphale said.  
“The– oh! Rather!” said Crowley.  
“Perhaps we’d better go home and catch the rest another night.” suggested Aziraphale.  
“Right you are.” Crowley said, kissing Aziraphale’s forehead and sitting up.  
If he wondered where Aziraphale meant by “home”, he said nothing. Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and they were dressed again. He reached over to straighten Crowley’s tie.  
“Not worried about frivolous miracles?” Crowley teased.  
“I almost hope Gabriel reads the receipts, can you imagine his face?” Aziraphale said.  
Crowley laughed.  
“Naughty angel!”


End file.
